eft intact of that proud and gallant army.

"My children," he said hoarsely in last appeal, "I must sleep in
Brussels to-night. There is the enemy. Go and break the English line
for me."

Cambronne, to whom nature and education alike had denied every
attribute of grace or greatness except unbounded devotion and stubborn
courage, mustered the Guard. Ney, _le terrible Rougeaud_, the
soldiers' idol, his torn uniform covered with dust, one of his epaulets
slashed from his shoulder, his coat open, his shirt likewise, his bared
breast black with powder, his face red-streaked with blood, for many
bullets had grazed him, his hair matted with sweat--the weather had
grown frightfully hot, the air was terribly humid--his eyes blazing,
flecks of foam about his mouth, placed himself in the lead. Every
staff officer left joined the great Marshal.

With the brass drums beating "_La Grenadiere_," that famous grenadier
quick-step, the great Guard moved out. Here, again, in the excitement
of the conflict, an opportunity was overlooked. They could have gone
up in rear of La Haye Sainte with practically no danger, but they went
straight out into the open, between farm and chateau. Up the road,
over the fields of bloody grain, through the torn hedges, trampling
over the bodies of their comrades, the last hope advanced to meet the
enemy.

All over the field the tide of battle ebbed and flowed. The armies
came together for the last try. Off to the right Lobau still held his
appointed station, but now the Prussians in great masses were swarming
on the field about Planchenoit. Division after division, avoiding
Lobau meanwhile, mounted the ridge to join the English line. It had
almost been broken by d'Erlon at La Haye Sainte. Mouffling,
Wellington's Prussian aide, had galloped over to Ziethen in command of
the advance with the news that unless the English were reinforced
heavily at once their line would be pierced and they would be routed.
On to the field opposite La Haye Sainte came the Prussians. Still
raged the battle around Hougomont and the English right, but the eyes
of every spectator not engaged in fighting for his life were
concentrated on the advance of the Guard.

Napoleon had ridden down from Rossomme to La Belle Alliance. He sat
his horse within easy cannon-shot of the English as the devoted Guard
passed by in its last review. His physical pain was forgot in the
great anxiety with which he watched them. The bat